


the winner takes it all

by mako_lies (wingeddserpent)



Series: The Ruin [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Background Political Drama, Established Relationship, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, With not so guest appearances by Ignis and so many mothers, even burning the candle at both ends can't speed up this slow burn, shifting pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-11-08 12:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17981201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/mako_lies
Summary: Noctis knows he's not the most observant guy in the world, but he eventually realizes he has feelings for Prompto. There's just one small problem, though.Well, it's not a small problem. Actually, it's more of a hulking behemoth of a problem that happens to love nature, big swords, and Prompto. Not necessarily in that order it turns out.





	1. eat your feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Wooo this fic has been ruining my life for months now. I'm hoping to update about every two weeks or so~! This work is set in ruin verse, but you don't have to read the other stories to understand it.
> 
> Check the notes at the end of the chapter for general content notes for the story.
> 
> Notes for this chapter: mentions of past Ignoct (don't worry, there's really no drama! and Ignis joins the OT4 in the next story), mild discussion of unnamed mental illness, mentions of past & present physical disability, and general low self-esteem.

“Pellegrino Farm is hardly your typical farm. Located in a repurposed bank vault near the Main Gate, it remains one of the most prolific alternative agricultural initiatives within Insomnia. Almeda Pellegrino had the daring idea when she was in her final year at the Royal Lucian Academy. Over the past ten years, she has remained one of the premier leaders in alternative agriculture.

Though the farm lacks natural sunlight and weather conditions…”

Pain slicks out oily from the ugly fat scar on his back, agony’s gaping maw swallowing up whatever the documentary is trying to tell him.  His surroundings roar out of focus. There is only that throb of pain. Noctis has gotta breathe. Breathe. Just breathe. He calls his magick. The blue sparks, searing, and his back yowls in protest.

Yet all the magick in the Star cannot best poor planning. There are no potions or elixirs or curatives in his armory. Moving to get some from the cabinet is as realistic as storming Zegnautus Keep and ending the War by himself.

Noctis forces his eyes open. Tears partially obscure the old bank building. Ivy covers the walls. Designed in the old style, it was likely built around when the Wall went up. It’s all severe rectangles, swooping pillars, and a refined air that’s almost trying too hard to be regal. That somebody could look at that stuffy old building and imagine a farm is crazy.

 

His father was baffled when Noctis asked for “The Complete Set of Insomnian Travel Destinations for the Outlander” documentaries. Virtually traveling in your own city must be a new low for the Line of Lucis. It was easier, though, since Noctis would never visit any of these places.

Three years ago, he went to a festival in a district near the Gate. It was absolute carnage.

Crownsguard and paparazzi crowded in like sylleblossoms during Tenebrae spring. Citizens had thrown themselves out of the tornado potato line when they saw he wanted one, and the picture of him with a greasy potato on a stick graced the pages of a few tabloids.

It’s way easier to sprawl under the blanket his dad claims his mom crocheted for him and order fries from the burger delivery place. All the workers there have been paid off. 

 

Only two more hours before Ignis arrives to make dinner, and his judgement isn’t undercut at all by distance. Noctis is supposed to clean before Ignis gets here, because the whole apartment is filled to the brim with trash and plastic bottles and clothes. 

Noctis’s dumb back twists itself into an even more complicated knot. Princes should know about agriculture and things. Famers are the backbone of society blah blah blah. Ignis can’t be too mad at him, right? 

Nothing better to do, anyway. His schedule is clear, since Dad cancelled dinner to deal with some secret Tenebrae mess. He hits the _play next_ button with barely any guilt. Specs will be disappointed, but if disappointing him were a professional sport, Noctis would be a contender for first place.

 

An hour an half later, a familiar bark rouses him. Regret mingles hot with pain when he jolts up. Still, he searches for Umbra. Weeks have passed since he heard from Luna last. Everyone is whispering about Tenebrae when they think Noctis isn’t listening. Even Gladio and Ignis, who occasionally tell him things. They can all taste Niflheim’s grease on whatever it is, but nobody thinks Noctis should be told anything. Evidently, the best quality in a Prince is vapid obliviousness.

Just last night, those insidious whispers curled like tainted tentacles into his dreams. He’d seen the endless azure fields of Tenebrae, burnt black. Noctis had clutched Luna’s charred body to his chest and wept some foul, burning tar.

Umbra offers up the journal regally. Noctis pats him, once, before pulling open the journal with all the care he can manage.

In her trained neat handwriting, the journal they share reads:

_Dearest Noctis,_

_I pray you are well. My brother has been named Deputy High Commander of Niflheim’s Forces, by the Grace of the Emperor. He is set to leave for Gralea tomorrow to complete his training. Tentatively, I assume they will gift him the tether of the_ _Magitek_ _Units._

_Please send word to the Citadel._

_All my love,_

_Luna_

The words wind and wind, only to unspool like cheap fishing line. Deputy High Commander? What are the Niffs playing at? Ten years ago, they took the Manor and the Nox Fleuret family with it, but he never expected them to churn Ravus into fodder for their war machine. Captive Royalty has few perks, but a gilded cage is usually one of them.

 _Send word to the Citadel._ Occasionally, Luna passes them information from the Empire through the notebook. This is by far the most shocking. Usually she says things like, “watch Ravatogh closely” or “there have been rumors of a smarter Magitek Unit.” Information that, if discovered by her captors, wouldn’t end too badly for her. Probably.

Even her being the Oracle won’t shield her from this, if somebody discovered it. He tears out the page, so as not to leave any trace of its removal. 

He has to call Ignis. Dad won’t pick up. It has to be Ignis. His lower back shrills as he grabs his phone off his trash-covered coffee table.

Ignis, as ever, picks up on the second ring. “Noct, I’ve nearly arrived. Is there something you’d like me to pick up on the way?” Traffic whizzes by in the background. He must have left early to avoid the evening rush.

“No, I’m fine. Just got a message from Luna. Ravus is gonna be the new Deputy High Commander and she thinks they’re probably putting him in charge of the MTs. Dad’s in that security meeting now, can you go crash it? This is important, Iggy.” Noctis should be the one crashing the meeting. Sending Ignis is going to confirm his incompetence to the Council.

More traffic goes by. Then, Ignis says, “I’vepulled over. Do you know anything else?”

“Just that he’s headed to Gralea now to finalize things,” he scans the journal again, but finds nothing new, “and to send word to the Citadel. She’s never… She’s never sent something this important before. This is bad.”

“Undoubtedly. Ravus is her brother, after all, and given the relationship between Tenebrae and the Empire, it’s likely he had little choice in the matter. It may well be their intention to pit him against her.”

Tightening her leash with her brother’s collar. It might be the only way they can think to hurt Luna. It’s been years since she became Oracle, but her ability to shoulder things is incredible and likely unhealthy. Years ago, Luna and Noctis had holed up in her room to read the Cosmogony. They’d invited Ravus, but Ravus preferred to sit with Noctis’s dad and listen to his stories. In the few weeks there, his dad and Ravus had gotten really close.

That pale, drawn teenager is gonna be the High Commander someday? Dad’s not going to like it it.

“Noct, I’m on my way to pick you up. Please wear your darkest suit and the black tie—”

“It’d probably be faster to ditch me. My… my back is pretty messed up. Can you go without me?” Noctis usually does he everything he can not to tell Ignis about his back. Ignis always tells his dad, and then hovers endlessly well-past when the flare subsides.

Ignis is silent for long enough Noctis tries to sit up. His breath hisses out of him. Nope. Absolutely not. He settles back into the couch. “Shall I call the physician?” Ignis asks.

“No! Just tell my dad. About Ravus. Not about my…”

Ignis’s sigh is disappointed. “He’d want to know about your condition, I assure you. However, time is of the essence.You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Thanks, Iggy. I appreciate it. But seriously, just focus on the meeting. I’ll be fine.”

“Take care, Noct. I’ll send you the relevant updates.”

 

Umbra whines at him, nosing forlornly at the journal. Right. But what to write? _Sorry your brother’s been swept into the enemy’s war machine? Sorry he’s going to try to destroy everything I’m supposed to protect? Sorry that he’s going to make your life hell?_

He steadies himself. No. Noctis didn’t survive years of etiquette classes to fail now, even if he’s never had to rely on ceremony to talk to Luna before.

_Thanks, Luna. Made sure it’s in safe hands. Sorry about your brother. I hope you’re safe. Talk to you soon. ~Noctis :)_

It’s good enough for government work. But how is Luna actually feeling? She never talks about things that bother her. Maybe that’s an Oracle thing, to always focus on the pain of others so that your own can’t swallow you up.

It’s something he could stand to be better at.

 

Umbra leaves, and Noctis watches shadows crawl across the ceiling as time slips by and by. His documentary ends. He should do something. Anything.

He never does.

Noctis _hates_ this, stinging sharp with the memories of his wheelchair that cost Tenebrae its farce of sovereignty. At Gladio’s insistence, they still keep one in his linen closet, like some shameful secret.

A different chair, but it still reeks of ash.

If Noctis were less proud, he could use the chair to go to the meeting. They have vans. But Noctis _is_ proud. Proud of re-learning motion. Proud of his strength. Proud of his standing.

His dad once said a King’s worth is measured “not in how many will bow to Him, but in knowing when to bend knee Himself.” But his dad says a lot of things about the Duty of Kings. That evening, his dad’s breath had been sharp with dark wine. Some distance, greater than usual, had stretched between them, but it’s likely the most honest Dad’s ever been with him about the future of their Line.

(Neither held any illusions about who Duty would require his Father kneel before. Who Noctis would kneel before. A sharp, clear moment that they could share. They had so few of them.)

In protest, his back twists back into a pretzel, his breath catching and catching and catching but he can’t breathe—past and present and future narrow, there are only the shadows—and then the key turns in the lock. Noctis can’t move. It might be Ignis or Gladio with news. He should get up.

“Noct?” Prompto call, his voice a vibrant rescue flare in the emptiness of Noctis’s apartment. “I grabbed us some Galahd takeout. Gladio canceled on me, and Iggy said you weren’t feeling good… Everything okay, buddy?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Noctis rasps, but Prompto’s probably too far to hear.

Noctis’d given Prompto the key to the apartment months ago, after another background check had cleared, and the Crownsguard approved Noctis lending out the key.

Prompto stalls in the doorway to the living room. His expression stays carefully smooth, but he’s not smiling which is really the same as frowning He’s dressed for training with Gladio: basketball shorts, a clingy tank that outlines his nipple piercings, and those rainbow running socks he swears help the circulation in his feet.

In his hands are two huge bags that are going transparent with grease. Apparently, that’s the best kind of takeout. Prompto surveys the mounds of trash, scattered clothes, and strewn games. Noctis’s stomach seizes into a more complicated knot than his back. He can’t even hunch in on himself, so he just looks at the TV screen that asks, patiently, _play next?_

It’s not the first time Prompto’s seen his apartment this bad, but it never gets easier. The few times Noctis has been to Prompto’s house, it’s always been achingly, meticulously clean. This is the _worst._

Someone could be paid to come clean his place. A cleaner from the Citadel could commute here and the cost would be more than swallowed by his living allowance. Someone to go through his things. Someone to sift through his disasters with gloved hands—

No. He barely wants Ignis to do that, and Ignis at least cares about him. Even though Ignis cleans as if every mess was made just to spite him. Everything Noctis does or doesn’t do end up piled on Ignis or Gladio’s shoulders.

Like delivering messages from Luna when Noctis decides he’s not up to it.

“Rough couple of days?” Prompto asks, handing over the bags of takeout. It smells awesome: rich and spicy, and his stomach gnaws angrily. He finished the leftovers Iggy left last night, when he could still limp around. 

“Something like that,” he murmurs. “Thanks, dude.”

The coffee table is covered in trash and dirty dishes, but Prompto clears it faster than Noctis can apologize. “What are friends for? Let’s get some calories in you. How else will you grow big and strong?” Prompto grins bright at him, as if nothing in the world is wrong.

“What, like Gladio? Pass. I don’t wanna be some meathead.” But Noctis pulls the bags open anyway. Inside, there’s falafel, a bunch of wrapped skewers, a few containers of rice, some hummus, and a kind of spicy-looking stew that probably has vegetables in it. He’s too hungry to think about picking them out. 

“Your loss. That guy’s seriously built,” Prompto laughs, sitting on the floor across from Noctis.

They eat out of the containers. Noctis starts on a skewer that might be garula. It’s awesome: spicy, hot, and juicy. More importantly, it’s not as spicy as Prompto usually orders so Noctis’s face doesn’t melt right out. He devours four before coming up for air, grease catching in that threat of fuzz on his jaw. Shaving is just one more thing on his never-ending to-do list.

“Did I tell you about work yesterday? Oh man, so I was bartending, like usual. And it was pretty calm night, until this guy comes in—and man, he wasn’t cute at _all_. He was the kind of guy who thinks his cheap body spray is a personality trait, y’know? One of those. So he gets super wasted. Like, Altissia girl wasted, okay?

“Anyway, of course he strips down naked, right? Because of course. So I’m stuck looking at this guy’s junk and his literal jungle. Seriously. And I swear, Noct, this guy dyed his pubes orange. Orange! None of his other hair was dyed, either! So a couple of my regulars see—y’know, Nyx and Crowe and them. They see this, and after they piss themselves laughing, they start chasing this guy around the bar. Well he starts singing some crazy drinking song, and Nyx tackles him and gets a face of ass. Which didn’t make him happy, y’know, so they kick Orange Pubes and his clothes right out of the bar. Seriously, dude. Ban naked Fridays when you’re King.” Prompto shovels stew and rice into his mouth.

“Uh… Naked Fridays are already not a thing. But I could outlaw orange pubes?” Noctis can’t help the laugh—he can see it clearly, Nyx throwing himself at a naked guy to protect Prompto’s honor. Prompto’s real popular among the Glaives.

Liking Prompto is easy as sleeping. He’s cheerful and easy-going and smart and funny and really good at games and kind. Hell, he’s brave too. He even stood up to Cor one time. 

 

Another bomb threat had been made against Noctis’s apartment last year. Someone, probably a Niff agent, sent the threat to the Citadel, and within twenty minutes, Crownsguard swept into his apartment with their white gloves and went through everything. His paintings. His journals. His comics. His stickers for Luna. His food. His porn mags, tucked away under the bed. Somebody probably laughed at how tame his tastes were.

Every thing he owned or did was turned over in their pristine gloved hands.

His house was eerily neat when they let him back in. Neat, but shifted—slight enough to make his back molars crackle with electricity. The image of them, sifting through his life like the museum curators would after the Ring took him, lingered and his hair stood up, static-y.

Prompto lingered as the Crownsguard filed out with Cor bringing up the rear. Face red as the Spark Ifrit gifted to Man, Prompto stepped right in front of Cor.

“Hey! You can’t treat him or his stuff like garbage! This is his life. Bomb or not, you’ve gotta show some sensitivity! He’s a person! Like, do your job, but don’t be assholes about it!” He gestured at two of the Crownsguard, who were laughing and tousling each other’s hair.

Cor stared down at Prompto, impassive as ever, and that was going to be the end of Prompto’s friendship clearance. For sure. Noctis had to do something: losing Prompto would be way worse than losing his illusion of privacy.

He started to tell Prompto it was okay, it was normal, it was fine, but Cor ducked his head, mouth turned down. “You’re right.” He fixed his sharp gaze on Noctis. “I’m sorry. This could have been gentler. They’ll be dealt with. For now, be assured your apartment is safe for you and your friend.”

 

Given they were Guards themselves, Gladio and Specs usually went along with whatever Cor said. It was fine. A bomb threat was way more serious than Noctis’s feelings. Feelings that were irrational anyway: it’s not like anybody said anything to his face about what they saw.

Well, except that one short Guard, who said he liked Noctis’s paintings. He’d been trying to be nice, probably, smiling awkwardly around the compliment. But Noctis tossed those paintings out as dramatically as he could the next day, like one of those crazy tortured artists in high-brow fiction that Iggy pretends to like.

That Prompto would protest on his behalf, that Prompto is here now… It’s a lot, in the best kind of way.

They blow through the food in record time—Prompto’s been eating better, since he started training with Gladio more. Put on some muscle. It’s good to see. Prom’d been scary thin all through high school and held himself like he could take up even less space. Someday, maybe, he’ll be okay with the idea of existing. Prompto stuffs the garbage into a plastic bag. “Hydrated today, buddy?”

“I don’t ‘hydrate’ on a normal day. I’m not a plant.”

Prompto disappears into the kitchen and comes back with some water, and Noctis chugs it anyway. “Your back being a dick?” Prompto asks, sitting down on the armrest of the couch.

“A bit.” The water clears some of the light-headed haziness from before. “Thanks, Prom.”

“Hey, no worries. How about you put on some tunes while I pick up a bit? Punk okay with you?”

It’s a job that doesn’t require Noctis to move. He pulls up _Renegades_ on the MogStation, and Prompto flashes a thumbs up. “Rage Against the Machine? Nice choice,” he says, even though it was an easy guess. He’s got a copy of it on vinyl. Nerd.

Maybe it’s silly to brighten at the praise, but it’s probably the first thing Noctis has done right all day. Maybe all week.

Prompto reappears with the bottles of pain meds and muscle relaxers. “Did you take any today?”

“Nah. I couldn’t—” He couldn’t get up to grab them. It’s probably lucky he didn’t drink anything all day, or Prompto would have walked in on an even sadder sight, and Noctis may have actually died of shame.

“Gotcha. Seriously, just text me next time. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing, I’ll come help you out. Or the guys will. Anybody. But you don’t…” Prompto takes a long time to unscrew the childproofed caps, chewing on his lip in concentration. “I know that you don’t want to put anybody out. But I wanna do anything I can to help you. I like helping you, right, so it’s not like… a burden or anything? I’m your best friend.” Prompto smiles at him, his whole face bright as sunlight.

It would be so easy to agree. “I’ll… try. And… you too, Prom. I’m here for you too.”

Even though Prompto is one of the most stubborn, independent people ever, hopefully he knows he can rely on Noctis.

“Thanks, Noct. Okay! You pick the tunes and uh… supervise, and I’ll get this place cleaned up fast. Then we can watch some TV?”

It works out. Prompto cleans like a fury—maybe not quite to Iggy’s standards—and after about an hour, it starts shaping up into some kind of order. He keeps up an easy, running chatter as he cleans: something about camera lenses that Noctis doesn’t hold the thread of.

Prompto looks over the living room and kitchen, hair flopping into his face with sweat, but he’s still smiling. He wipes the sweat off with his arm, muscles flexing under his tight shirt. “Not too shabby. We’ve definitely earned some chill time.” 

Noctis finds the travel guide for Altissia Prompto loves, just to see Prompto’s wide, wide grin. Seeing that smile is one of the best things that’s ever happened to him. “Awesome. Mind if I…?” He gestures at the couch.

Oh, man. Best part. The muscle relaxers have done their job well enough. He shifts so Prompto can cuddle up next to him on the couch, his arm slung gently over Noctis’s shoulder.

The list of people Noctis can acceptably cuddle with is too short, and it gets shorter the more time passes. These days, it’s just Iggy (sometimes), Gladio, his Dad (occasionally), and Prom. Prompto’s nearly seen him at his worst, and chosen to stay anyway, despite not having to. He’s one of the only people who doesn’t _have to_ stay.

Prompto curls in against Noctis’s side, stretching his legs out so they’re presses thigh to thigh. They barely fit, but Noctis doesn’t even care. His back twinges, but it’s easy enough to ignore with the immediacy of Prompto. He leeches more heat from Prompto. Prompto’s always run really hot, like he’s made of barely contained energy. Or like he’s running a perpetual fever.

Gentle violin music lulls them into the documentary. The narrator explains the history of the canals and waterways, and how the canals were originally crafted as passageways for the Tide Mother to bless the city. “You comfortable, Noct? Back okay?”

“Doing better.” Noctis takes the opportunity to snuggle closer. But he’s definitely subtle about it. “Thanks, Prom. Again. Really.”

“Like I’d just leave you here. Nah. It’s cool, bro.”

It’s nice to have somebody who’s only around because they like him. Ignis and Gladio both love him, and he loves them, but there’s more than love between them. There’s duty and fealty, too, and that makes their bonds deeper, but it’s nice just to be liked, too.

Just being liked for himself still feels new.

Prompto is entranced the moment the canals appear on the screen. No matter how many times they watch this documentary, he still stares with wide-eyed awe. He says he loves how photogenic the city is. Someday, Noctis will take him there. Apparently the fishing is good. It’s a place that would feed both of their interests.

Rather than the documentary, Noctis watches Prompto. His eyes are blue and bright on the screen, like he can memorize it. His teeth catch on his chapped lips. It’s cute. _He’s_ cute.

Noctis turns back to the TV, sharp enough his back flares again.

Ever casual, Prompto pulls him closer. Heat thrums through him, like pleasant buzzing sunlight in his veins, itching to get out. Noctis knows this feeling.

Is he blushing? He’s definitely overheated. Noctis _knows_ this feeling. It reminds him of how it felt with Ignis at first.

A year past, and shame still claws up his throat from his stomach, like some evil, determined octopus. _The bob of Ignis’s working throat, that slump in his shoulders that never belonged._ No. No. No reason to feel bad. Things didn’t work out in the end, but they’re okay. It’s all okay. He hasn’t lost Ignis.

He tenses. Pain rushes back, and the warmth fades. Noctis barely feels Prompto. Even if he does have feelings like that for Prompto, it’s not like it matters, right? Rejecting somebody twice generally makes them not want to date you. Prompto’s probably given up, after the second time Noctis turned him down. And anyway, it isn’t like he knows that Noctis is bi, since only Gladio and Ignis know.

 

A few years back, Noctis had asked Gladio. “Hey, uh, could I ask you a question?” They were both naked, Gladio’s newly-filled in tattoo gleaming Royal black under the shower spray.

Gladio frowned, massaging shampoo into his hair. His whole body was wet and gleaming. The black of the tattoo accented his tanned skin, and water slid down his thick muscles. Gladio caught his gaze, eyes amber and bright. “Sure. What’s got you all squirrelly all of a sudden? Something happen at school?”

“No… I’ve been… I’ve been thinking that maybe I like guys too? You know. Like that.”

Gladio’d been out forever, flirting with men and women as natural as breathing. Even if Gladio’d never dated, he made his interests known. He’d know what to do. And Gladio would understand the complications of being queer in the Noble Circles. “I’ve just been… noticing stuff about guys? Physical stuff.”

“That all?” Gladio closed his eyes to rinse his hair, like the heir to the throne wasn’t having a sexuality crisis. “Shit, Noct. Had me worried for a second.”

He tried not to watch Gladio condition his hair. “Sorry,” he muttered, wishing suddenly he’d had the foresight to have this conversation while they were both wearing clothes. Or maybe never.

At least he could blame the flush on the steam.

“Don’t worry about it. Is it a for sure thing, or a questioning thing?” Gladio asked, gentler this time, the tone he used to coax Noctis through a problem instead of pushing him through to the finish.

Was he positive? He thought about the really embarrassing dream he’d had about Specs and the kitchen a few nights ago. How he hadn’t been able to focus on training after Gladio’s gotten those leather pants. “Yeah, I’m positive.”

“Cool. Join the club. You already know I’m into everything. Not like I’m the only one, either. There’s Cor and my dad. Your dad, too. It’s common enough in the Citadel, if you know where to look.”

His dad? His dad liked guys? Noctis was pretty sure his mouth gaped like the world’s dumbest fish. How did _Gladio_ know that, when Noctis didn’t? But then, it wasn’t like his dad told him anything important. Of course everyone would know before Noctis did. That was just typical. “Right,” Noctis said, finally.

Gladio grimaced as he rinsed his hair again. “Sorry, Noct. Thought you knew.”

Nice to know he wasn’t going to be lectured about the importance of having an heir or something. “Don’t worry about it.” Gladio wasn’t to blame.

Gladio found his natural, organic, free-range whatever face soap and worked it into his face. It was seriously not fair. Gladio was probably the most attractive person he’d ever met, and his skin was seriously perfect. He didn’t even need fancy products. Guy just liked anything that brought him closer to nature. “So anybody in particular you’re into?”

“Oh. Not really. Just… looking. And stuff.” He resumed watching water slide down the tile. “What about you, anybody catch your eye?”

Gladio loved romance. He was the most love crazy person Noctis knew. It was no surprise that Gladio coughed. “Oh. Uh. Well. That’s… Nope. Nobody. Anyway, you can look all you like, Noct. I know I’m impossible to resist. But maybe let’s _not_ have the sexuality crisis in the shower next time?”

Noctis spluttered in indignation and threw the soap at him.

 

He knows he should tell Prompto, but it never really came up. There’s never been a reason to talk about it. The only person Noctis ever dated explicitly didn’t want Prompto to know, and so he’s never said anything. And he already knows that Prompto is bi, given the number of people Prompto dated in high school after Noctis rejected him.

But maybe it’s not a crush or whatever. Maybe he’s just grateful to Prompto for helping with everything and being awesome. Noctis leans into Prompto, feeling the warmth again. The sunlight burns through him, bright, and— _his lips against Prom’s, tasting his grape lip balm_ —oh no. No. Gotta stop that.

Documentary. Bask now, think later. Maybe he’ll talk to Iggy about it sometime.

“This is the Tide Mother’s Altar. Legend tells that first Oracle stood upon the Altar and called upon Leviathan to bring Her healing Waters into the city wracked by typhus. She sent a great wave forth, flooding the city, and purging the city of the disease forever…”


	2. sleeping on it

“Thought so,” Gladio drawls, leaned up against the wall. Apart from them, the training room is empty. Noctis hangs in the doorway, hyperaware of his limp and the sudden ill-fit of his clothes. A week has seen his muscles melt off. That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Gladio shines in his new second skin: new Crownsguard blacks. His jacket hangs open to reveal his abs, all hundred billion of them. “Thought so, what?” Noctis grouses.

“Iggy’s been flighty as shit. Figured it had to be your back. Guess I was right.”

“Want a gold star, Detective Gladio?” Noctis summons his sword anyway, but even moving his arm makes his back grouchy. It’s been two days since the news about Ravus dropped, and longer since Noctis left his apartment.

Gladio sighs. His jacket slips a bit, showing off a perfect brown nipple. Noctis should stop staring. But it’s miles and miles of tanned skin, and while Gladio routinely shucks out of his clothes, this is somehow _more_ than just seeing him shirtless. There’s something tantalizingly enrapturing about it. “Nah. C’mon. Go get changed, and we’ll head to the lake.”

The lake? Oh, hell yeah.

With the prospect of fishing, Noctis can’t even be mad (bro). Noctis makes a dignified, limping beeline for the locker room.

The Citadel Lake was likely created for someone in his family who liked to fish. A record of its creation is in the library somewhere, but not even Ignis bothered to check. It’s not a big lake, all things considered, but it’s got a tiny pier and his dad has fish flown in every few months, probably for Noctis. Evergreen trees flank the banks, and in late spring, the waterlilies bloom. A bit of nature crafted for the nobility, but the pier is empty as ever. Many of the noble families have their own estates with manufactured nature.

Gladio slows to keep pace with Noctis as they meander to the tiny pier. “Seems pretty bad this time.”

“Could be worse.” Noctis would shrug, but wincing would probably prove Gladio’s point.

It’s getting easier. Twinges of pain when he moves too sharply, but he can walk and he can fish, which is good enough for government work. Gladio pulls the chairs and tackle box out of the armory. As he sets them up, he says, “Should think about seeing your physical therapist again.”

Noctis hates that he’s right. Gladio usually is, especially about the back thing. It’s like his superpower. Ignis knows just enough about everything to seem like he knows everything. Gladio, though, specializes. He hones in on something until he’s an expert. Noctis’s back is something that Gladio’s specialized in, and if it were anybody else, it’d probably be awkward and terrible. But it’s _Gladio._ He’s been here literally every step of the way from wheelchair to warping… Gladio might be the only person he’s comfortable enough to have this conversation with. Probably why they’re having it. Noctis calls his fishing rod from the void. “Probably. But I don’t want it to be a thing. You know?” 

“Your back’s gonna flare up sometimes, you know that,” Gladio admonishes gently. His hand finds the small of Noctis’s back, guiding, and his thumb brushes up electrifying over the knotted scar.

Heat spreads from the contact and Noctis flushes under the heavy sun. Just as suddenly, Gladio pulls back and shucks out of his jacket, baring his tattoo to the sun. “Gonna get my tan on.”

It’s probably just an excuse to strip. Noctis admires his wings, anyway. The tattoo took ages to fill in and was crazy painful. Sometimes, Gladio made Noctis train with the Guard or the Glaives or Ignis instead. Once, he’d gotten to train with his dad, and his dad had soundly wiped the floor with him and told him he needed to pack his arsenal better. But he’d smiled as he helped Noctis up.

The tattoo was probably worth the pain, because Gladio shows it off all the time and it’s beautiful. People state even more now than they used to, which. Fair. He’s _beautiful_. His huge freaking wingspan covered in feathers like he could fly away. Except Gladio won’t, because he’s here to stay. (His tattoo’s _black_. The royal color. _Noct_ _is_ _’s_ color. It’s commitment and duty and love and everything all together. A sign, deep under the skin, of how much Gladio loves Noctis. It shouldn’t fill Noctis with tingly, electrifying heat, but it does. He’s only human, anyway.)

Noctis casts his line, distracted, as Gladio stretches out on his stomach to brown his back. “If I go back to PT, I’ll have to tell dad,” Noctis finally admits.

His dad has always been weird about his back. Overprotective and hovering. He used to pull Noctis out of all of his PE classes, until Noctis started sneaking back into them with Prompto. It wasn’t that he liked PE. The opposite, actually, but whispers ghosted him enough already. Noctis wanted less attention, not more.

“Sure, but better than risk it fucking up real bad,” Gladio points out.

“I get that. But he’s—”

“Worried, I know. Do you want me to tell dad? He could get yours to chill.”

It’s tempting, but frustrating. This constant game of telephone with his dad. How many people does it take to get a word in to his dad? They see each other a few times a week, and for what? For small talk. Anything substantial is told to someone else to pass along. Maybe they should just start passing notes, like he does with Luna. “Nah. I’ll just talk to him.” In a century, maybe.

Gladio settles more comfortably. “Anything biting?”

“Quiet day.”

He tugs lazily at the rod, but nothing. Might be a no fish day. It’s been awhile since they filled the lake. Gladio pulls out a book. Clouds laze by and by, and the day stretches on. Nothing bites.

His phone pings with a message from Prompto.

_[Prompto] heya dude!!! wanna hit up the arcade this evening?_

_[Noctis] Hell yeah! Meet you there at 7?_

_[Prompto]_ _ᕕ_ _(_ _ᐛ_ _)_ _ᕗ_

Good timing. Noctis’ll be able to finish his individual study and the assignment for Caelan, his tutor. Graduating high school made his lessons more private. The best days are when Prompto tags along. Prompto’s really smart and always ask questions that Noctis wouldn’t usually think to ask. And he has all these cute pens and pencils, and sometimes he plays with his hair while he’s listening to lectures, chewing on his lip in thought. 

It’s amazing how Prompto finds time: between working, and going to university part-time, and training with Gladio, he stills makes time to hang with Noctis. He’s such a great, hardworking, amazing, beautiful—

Noctis is used to zoning out while he fishes, but this is ridiculous. Apparently even considering the possibility he liked Prompto had opened Leviathan’s Floodgates. Every moment, it seems like he’s just hanging out on the edge of his vision, waiting to be thought about. Gladio is just over there—he could ask him if he thinks Noctis has feelings for Prompto? He knows about romance and stuff. Noctis glances at the cover of his book: a buff lady with a big sword and armor embracing some spindly wizard with box braids.

Except—Gladio sits up. “Hey, you okay here? I’m meeting Prompto.”

Noctis looks over the lake. He hasn’t caught anything except feelings. And he still has a paper to write. “I should head back to the library anyway. I’ve got homework on Modern Economies to do,” he reels in the line and stretches, his back making all sorts of terrible popping sounds. “I’ll make an appointment with Adora, too.”

“Good. Don’t worry about your dad.” Gladio shrugs back into his jacket, rolling his shoulders. Noctis doesn’t watch the flex of his pecs. Really. He doesn’t.

“Thanks. Have fun with Prompto.”

Gladio smirks. “Sure will.”

 

Noctis arrives at the arcade at exactly 7. Prompto thumbs through his phone, waiting outside. He looks good. Amazing, actually. It’s not unusual, but today he’s really dressed up… for Noctis?He’s wiggled into some lime green skinny jeans, a grey Winnie the Pooh shirt, and an open almost-black vest polka-dotted with skulls. He grins when he sees Noctis. “Heya, bud!”

“Hey yourself. Ready to kick some ass?” Noctis sticks his hands in his pockets, in an effort to seem casual. This is just a chill hangout, even if he’s starting to wish otherwise.

“You know it~!” Prompto grabs his arm to drag him in. The machines are loud and flashy. Some kids flock to the machines, but mostly it’s empty. It suits Noctis just fine. Fewer people to gawk at him.

“Let’s try out Gunslinger Stratos,” Noctis points out the machines in the corner.

They load their coins in and it swells to life. It’s them against two other players, and Noctis holds the two gun-controllers tightly. He’s ready—the game starts and his character ducks behind cover as another player shoots at him. He flips his character out of cover for  a tandem attack with Prompto when—

Prompto stretches, sliver of stomach showing between his shirt and his bright pink boxers that peak over his pants like a statement. Noctis’s mouth is dry and—

**_Dies._ **

He stares at the screen, then down at the gun-shaped controllers in his hands, and over at where Prompto is still shooting. How had he gotten so distracted? ”Dude~! In less than a minute?” Prompto yelps, even as he expertly takes out one of the other players. 

Prompto is scary good at video games. Normally Noctis can kinda keep up, but Prom’s stomach—that fair gleam of hair—is apparently too much for him. Just typical. Noctis plugs in a couple more coins and rejoins the fray. Gotta carry his weight, and once they get the tickets Noctis can get Prompto a giant Mog plush, since he likes Mog House so much, and then Prompto will shine with smiles, and he’ll throw himself at Noctis—No, no, gotta—

**_GAME OVER_ **

It’s over faster this time. Noctis swears. This is crazy. This is fucking crazy. Just last week, it was fine. He could be around Prompto without losing his goddamn mind. Things had been easier with Ignis: he hadn’t been so distracted, and they had fallen into their relationship simply enough. It was the everything else that was complicated.

Beside him, Prompto eventually goes down under the onslaught of the other team in a valiant last stand. The tickets drizzle out, but Prompto watches Noctis instead. His expression is unreadable. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Uh. Just… got a lot on my mind.”

It’s even true. Ignis is supposed to call him about the Tenebrae situation tomorrow, and they’re attending a debrief about it the day after. Word has it that Niflheim has been on the move, a fact that’s been speculated on in every major news outlet. There’s a lot to think about, even if it’s not what’s distracting him.

Prompto bites his lip, worry sharp in his bright eyes. “Do you wanna call it, and just chill at home?”

That probably means cuddling. Noctis isn’t sure he could handle cuddling, no matter how much his heart feels like shaken (not stirred) can of coke. That’s courting disaster. “How about we play some Mog House while we’re here?”

Prompto beams, and it’s almost better than cuddling. Almost. 

 

The next morning, Ignis drives him to the Citadel. “What time is your appointment?” Ignis checks the clock on his dash. The clock says 7:30, but Ignis keeps all his clocks at least fifteen minutes fast.

Dark circles hang heavy beneath Ignis’s eyes, that even the faint brush of powder he wears can’t hide. He’ll have to wear heavier makeup for the meeting tomorrow. After the meeting, maybe he’ll sleep. 

Noctis shifts in his seat. He’d called last night to set up a PT appointment. He’s positive his dad has heard about it already. If not, Ignis will probably tell him. “Eight. It’s okay if we’re late. Adora won’t start without me.”

“Still, it’s best to be punctual,” Ignis says, carefully maneuvering them through the morning traffic. “Has there been any improvement?”

“I’m walking.”

Ignis sighs, but doesn’t press further. “I’ve compiled notes on what we know of Ravus’s promotion and Niflheim military movements. There have been multiple security meetings: some with the Council, some with the Guard, and a fair few with the Glaives. The meeting tomorrow will be attended by all three. I’ve tried to keep the notes succinct, but you’ll ask me if you have any questions?”

“Of course, Specs. You’ve… been sleeping, right?”

The hiss of an Ebony being opened is answer enough, but Ignis lies, “Enough.”

A few people are gathering on the steps on the Citadel when they arrive, despite the ungodly hour. “Is there an event going on?”

“Likely a protest. The debate over immigration threatens to boil over again, given the recent unrest. But it shouldn’t begin in earnest until tomorrow. I believe that these are simply organizers.” Ignis takes them down into the garage. “I’ll see you tomorrow, at the latest. You’ll drive to the Amicitia Manor this afternoon?”

“Yeah. Promised I’d help Iris with her history homework.” Ignis locks the car doors, and they head to elevator.

“Excellent. Please don’t stay up too late tonight. Your suit is clean and ready to go?”

Sometimes, Ignis’s attention to detail borders on obsession. Might be his OCD flaring up again. Hopefully he’s still seeing his therapist. Noctis swallows a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Relax, Specs. You’re sure I can’t come to any of the stuff today?” 

“Positive. Your father wants you to focus your energy on tomorrow.”

“Well he could tell _me_ that.”

Ignis sighs again. He’s not as good at swallowing them as Noctis is. “You’ll have a chance to speak with him tomorrow, I’m certain. After the meeting.” He glances at his watch. “I’m sorry. I need to brush up before my first appointment. Call Gladiolus if you need anything further. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The elevator stops on his floor, and Noctis watches him leave.

He works way too hard. Always has. Noctis leans heavily against the elevator wall as he soars up and up. Ignis needs a break. Noctis being basically out of commission for the past week really hasn’t helped matters. He has to get better.

 

Adora is waiting for him in one of the private training rooms. She’s a tall woman. Her face is squarely strong, and she has long dark curly hair she pulls back into a wispy bun. She’s wiry with lithe muscle. Her smile gleams. “Good to see you, Noctis. It’s been ages!”

Something in him uncoils. She always makes him relax. Probably what his dad pays her for. “Yeah. Been really busy lately.”

“Don’t I know it? Well, come on. Let’s hop to it.”

Adora’s an amazing physical therapist, and he hates it a little. He’s sweating sprawled out on the floor before too long. It would worry him, but he knows she’ll help him up. She kneels in front of him. “You did all right, but I think we should meet twice a week at least. Maybe bring hunky Gladio along. It helps to have friendly faces.” She winks, without any intent. He’s pretty sure her girlfriend would have a thing to say if she was really coming onto Gladio.

“Your face is friendly.”

“The friendliest,” she agrees, smiling. She heaves him up gently. “Still, couldn’t hurt.” A groan escapes him, and that doesn’t even cover the creaking from his back. Hell. He’s not even twenty yet.

Maybe Prompto? It’s embarrassing, but Prompto’s always there for him. And Prompto likes PE and physical stuff. He might like this too? But he’s so busy… Noctis stretches out his back, listening to the snap crackle pop of his spine. “Okay, okay, I’ll ask Gladio.”

“You better, or I’ll march down there and ask him myself.”

His phone dings and he dives for his bag before he can stop himself. Is it Prompto?

It’s Prompto. He’s sent a selfie—Prompto grins goofily into the camera, the sunrise spreading violet behind him. He can’t even tell where Prompto is, exactly. But it’s nice. He saves it immediately, flushing. Adora laughs at him. “Oh, I see how it is. My next appointment is in ten. Off you go. I’m a very busy woman! And be sure to come back in the next few days, ok? Monitor your pain. Use your tracker.”

He nods absently, sending back to Prom, _Nice pic!_ Adora shoos him out laughing, and he heads back to the garage with a wave. The Amicitia house is a ways out from the Citadel, as most of the Noble Manors are. He’s gotten better at driving, but the really challenge will be focusing long enough to get out there. 

 

Iris wrinkles her nose at the textbook. Her and Noctis are sprawled on the coziest couch in the Amicitia parlor. Her notebook and pens and textbooks are spread across the ornately carved table. “Ugh, I hate this. I don’t get it at all,” she complains, “Who cares about the Mystic? He’s just some old dude who did like one thing a bajillion years ago.”

“…He kind of founded Lucis…?” Noctis supplies. He glances at her book. The text is one solid block of highlighter. She’s highlighted every single word in neon yellow, and he strongly suspects that she hasn’t read any of it.

His phone pings and he dives for it. 

_{Ignis] The meeting went well. I’ll have a report for you ready by morning. Will you have time to read it_ _prior to the meeting_ _?_

_[Noctis]_ _Of course._ _Doing okay, Specs?_

_[Ignis] Yes. Sorry if I’ve been curt. There are simply many things that need attending._

_[Noctis] No, I get it. Sorry that I’ve been a mess lately._

_[Ignis] You’ve done everything asked of you. That your condition is flaring is hardly your fault._

_[Noctis] I guess._

_[Ignis] You needn’t apologize. I’m happy to do this._

_[Noctis] If you say so. But my PT went pretty well, so I should be able to do more soon. An_ _d_ _maybe_ _we_ _could start doing yoga again?_

_[Ignis] I’d like that. Sorry, but I’ve another commitment. I’ll message you later._

_[Noctis] Later._

Iris nudges Noctis’s ankle with her foot. “Hey. You okay, Noct?”

He nods at her. Her hair’s pinned back with serrated metal hair clips that look like they could double as knives in a pinch. Sharp and functional and pretty. It’s very Amicitia. “Sorry, had to message Specs. He’s been crazy busy.”

Her smile is distant like she’s become the Messenger she’s named for and  disappeared to the Beyond, ferrying the souls of women in her arms. “Yeah. There’s a lot happening now, right?” She caps her highlighter. “You know something big is going down when Cor is the one making Dad come home, and not the other way around.”

“Has Cor finally stopped arguing and just moved in?”

“Mostly. But you know how stubborn he is.” She rolls her eyes, resting her sharp little chin on Noct’s shoulder.

He doesn’t mind. Iris is almost as much his sister as Gladio’s, if little sisters were required to die for you in war time. Noctis loops an arm protectively around her shoulders. “Come on. I promised Gladio that I’d help you with your history homework. Don’t make your Prince into a liar.”

“Sure, sure, _your Highness_.”

Just as they’re getting into the specifics on the Founding of Lucis (TM) and why the Mystic was so important—something something plague, then Crystal and Ring, and it’s all because of him, what the Line of Lucis and their Shields bear now—when his phone bleeps at him again.

He dives for it, pretty sure that it’s just Ignis again. Maybe with more advice about the meeting. But it’s _Prompto._ His heartbeat picks up and he swipes fast to check the message.

_[Prompto]_ _h_ _ey dude_ _g_ _ladio asked me to let you know he’s on his way with Iggy_ _s_ _orry I can’t hang with you guys tonight_ _(_ ⌣ ___ ⌣ _”)_ _h_ _eaded_ _to work_

_[Noctis] Thanks for the heads up. You and Gladio have a nice time?_

_[Prompto]_ _yea but_ _i_ _ggy needed him, so~!_ _i_ _wanted to go, too, but work…_ _t_ _hink Iggy needs a little_ _tlc._

_[Noctis] Roger Roger. You serve all the drinks, k?_

_[Prompto]_ _w_ _on’t let you down~!_

He can’t believe that Prompto had enough energy to train before work. Bartending isn’t exactly a relaxing job. He’s so amazing. But Noctis can’t afford to be distracted. Not when Ignis is running himself down to nothing, again, and Noctis isn’t even there to tell him to knock it off.

Noctis has to pay more attention. This being distracted thing… Isn’t gonna cut it No matter how awesome Prompto is. No matter what happens in Noctis’s chest when he thinks about him.

Iris nudges him. “Ignis again?” she asks.

He ruffles her hair. “Prompto. Your brother’s coming with Specs. Guess he had a rough day. Maybe we’ll order pizza from that place he likes? What is it, Pizza the Hut?”

“Yeah. I’ll do that now.”

“Let’s finish your homework first,” he says, and then points to a paragraph. “This is probably where you wanna be focusing, kiddo.”

“I’m not a kid,” she shrieks, even as she diligently bends over the page, tracing the lines with her finger as she slowly reads.

 

Not long after, the door opens. Gladio steers Ignis in. His hand is on the small of Ignis’s back, guiding, even as Ignis glares at them, eyes stormy like an emerald sea behind his glasses. Gladio won’t allow him to falter—protectively looming. Anything that tried to hurt Ignis now would be pulverized before ever reaching him. It’s good to see. Gladio can take care of Ignis when Noctis can’t.

The two of them are really close. Ever since they stopped hating each other when they were kids, the two have always been on the same page. Someday, he could see them dating. But who knows? It’s not like either of them talk about that kind of thing with him. Not that he blames them. Of course Ignis wouldn’t talk about it with Noctis after the failed relationship thing. Maybe Noctis should be jealous, but he wants them to be happy, and they understand each other in a really crazy intense way he sometimes envies. 

“Specs?” Noctis asks.

Iggy’s gaze snaps to Noctis. His folds his arms, primly defensive, but he sees Noctis and Iris pressed up together on the couch, her school things spread out across the table. “Noctis,” he breathes, hands falling to his sides.

“Cut it out,” Noctis commands. He cringes as soon as the words escape. They keep training him to wield that power of kings—but he flinches and flinches from it. It just sucks to tell his friends what to do.

To undercut the harshness, the _command_ , he scoots to make room between himself and Iris. Ignis hunches his shoulders, pink crawling awful up his cheeks. Noctis aches for his shame, but it has to be done. Ignis has to stop.

Being Lucian Royalty is to serve and protect, even those who don’t wish to be protected.

Gladio nudges Ignis into the gap between Iris and Noctis. Ignis sits between them, resting his head on Noctis’s shoulder. He’s stiff as a cardboard cutout, uncomfortable. “You’re working too hard again,” Noctis murmurs. 

“Like Noct said…” Gladio hovers over them, settling his huge paws on Ignis’s shoulders. He kneads at the tension there like a sweet cat. “…cut it out. We need you, Iggy. Gotta stop letting them boss you around. You’re advisor to the Prince of Lucis—not the Citadel’s errand boy.”

“I happen to have a very important job—”

“Guys,” Iris says, gentle yet firm. “No arguing. Ignis, you gotta rest. You’re starting to look like my dad. Gladdy, calm down. You don’t have to fight anybody. It’s just us. Noct, stop being bossy and go make some tea.”

Crossing Iris is almost as scary as crossing Cor, so Noctis extracts himself from Ignis to obey. Jared is humming away in the kitchen, Talcott playing underfoot with about a million and a half Barbies when Noctis comes in. “What can I do for you, Your Highness?” asks Jared, his voice calm as ever. Whatever the current strain in the Amicitia house is, Jared never seems to be affected.

“Got any jasmine tea? Ignis’s had a rough day,” Noctis explains. He grimaces at the weird smacking kissy noises Talcott makes. Whatever keeps him from making Jared’s job harder, though.

“Of course. I’ll put the kettle on,” Jared says. The Amcitias have racks of tea, all neatly labeled in blown glass bubbles. He fetches the jasmine and says, “This is Lady Amicitia’s favorite. Have you heard? She’ll be making an appearance soon.” 

Must be bad if she’s coming. It could either be because things are heating up again between Niflheim and Lucis, which would require Accordo’s attention, or just concern for her family. Gladio says that while she isn’t in Insomnia often, she cares about her family like a born Amicitia. Noctis has only a few memories of her, but fierce is the word that comes to mind.

“Gladio’ll be happy to see her.” Noctis leans against the counter, eyeing the meat pie cooling on the rack. Maybe they don’t need that pizza after all.

The kettle screams. Noctis finds a delicate china teapot and pours the water over an infuser. Ignis is so picky about his tea. Jasmine has to seep for exactly three minutes. Jared watches him in amusement. “You boys are good for each other.”

Noctis flushes, but accepts the pretty porcelain tray inlaid with black flowers when Jared presses it into his hands. He finishes prepping the tea. “Thanks, Jared.”

When he gets back out, Ignis is crushed between the siblings on the couch. Iris pushes Spec’s face into her brother’s shoulder. “No, you’re resting. No helping me with my homework. That’s Noct’s job~!”

“Yeah, Specs. Let me be the smart one for once. Here’s your tea.”

Noctis bows over the tray as Ignis takes the cup. Gladio barks out a laugh, but it’s that slow spreading smile of Ignis’s that makes it worth it, even if it is kinda embarrassing. “Thank you, Noctis.” He sips it and that instant look of relief makes him look his age, instead of however old he wants everyone to think he is.

“No problem.” 

Noctis hops up onto the arm of the couch, perched beside Iris. Gladio slides an arm around Ignis and with his giant wingspan, he’s almost able to pull Iris in too, and he asks, “Finish your homework, Iris?”

“Mostly. Noct helped a lot. But my head’s starting to hurt… Don’t think I can read anymore tonight.” She examines her rainbow toe socks, opening and closing her mouth a few times like she wants to say something.

Probably something she doesn’t want him and Ignis to hear. Noctis nudges her knee with his toe. She beams up at him, and then asks Gladio, “Can I be done for the night? I’ll go early tomorrow to get more help.”

“All right, all right,” Gladio says. “But make sure you do it before class, got it?”

“Yeah, I know. I know.” Iris pouts, but she leans into Ignis, settling up against his side easy as anything.

Gladio and Iris talk about school. Noctis tunes it out so he can watch Ignis. Ignis looks exhausted. Cover up and powder don’t quite hide the bags under his eyes. His hair is stiff with gel but tousled, as though he’d been tugging at it earlier. He only tugs at his hair when he’s his most overwhelmed or frustrated. Noctis isn’t sure, but he looks like maybe he’s lost a little weight in the past few weeks, too.

Just how busy has he been? Guilt isn’t a helpful emotion, Noctis knows, but it swells up ugly anyway.

Ignis says, gently, underneath the siblings’s conversation, “Noct, are you quite well? You’re staring.”

“Just making sure you drink your tea.”

Ignis knows him too well. He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue, smiling down at his mug. Noctis doesn’t earn his smiles as much as he’d like to. They seem to be getting rarer and rarer. Back when they were dating, it had been so easy at first. “It’s wonderful, Noct. You’ve a promising career in tea ceremony, if you so choose.

There’s no good response. There’s no question about his future. Probably Ignis means it as a compliment. “Thanks, Iggy.” 

A spark of pain lights up his back from his position on the arm of the couch, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t _want_ to move. Almost all his favorite people are here, and that’s a rare enough occurrence to treasure. But maybe his face shows something, because both Ignis and Gladio stare at him. Iris hops up with a chirpy, “I need to grab a shower and get ready for school tomorrow. G’night, guys. Play nice, okay?” 

Gladio nods. “Yeah, okay. Love you.”

“You too! Night!”

Gladio shakes his head, his hair brushing his shoulders. “Dunno how, but she’s growing up good, isn’t she?”

“Sure is,” Noctis agrees, as he shuffles onto the couch to snuggle with Ignis.

Noctis relaxes against Ignis, head resting on his shoulder. His back smolders in gentle pain. He can deal with it. They have more important things to deal with. 

Gladio begins, because he’s never been one to hesitate: “Ignis. You gotta stop working yourself down like this. I need you to help me with Noct. Can’t do that if you’re not pulling your weight.”

“I can certainly ‘pull my weight’ and attend my duties.”

“Can you?” Gladio fixes Ignis with that look Noctis knows well. That fierce, protective as hell look when he’s pushing you to be better because he knows you can. He’s missed his career as inspirational speaker.

Ignis’s lips thin until they’re basically invisible.If there’s one thing he hates, no matter how vehemently he denies it, it’s criticism. Even deserved. Especially deserved. Ignis clasps his hands together, hands rigid in his well-oiled gloves. “I may have allowed myself to be stretched a tad thin.”

Before Gladio can push more, because that’s what he does, _he’s a pusher_ , Noctis puts his hand over Ignis’s, feels that butter-soft leather. “Well, stop it,” Noctis says, squeezing his hand. “We need you. Delegate or something. Hell, we’ll get you a secretary if you need it.”

“None of the previous advisors have had secretaries…”

“None of the others have taken on everything in the Citadel as their personal mission,” Gladio points out. “Maybe a secretary would give us our best friend back.” 

A warbling song picks up from his phone. _Spare us from the Mother’s wrath—spare us!_ It’s the theme from one of the B-Grade Astral Mash movies Gladio’s mom likes. Gladio stands. “Hold on. Gotta take this.”

His mom’s voice sounds when as he answers it, walking away. Muffled though it is, her voice sounds sharper than usual. Like she’s angry. Maybe she _is_ coming to Insomnia? Noctis pets over Ignis’s hand again. He should probably drop the subject. But it’s Ignis. He can’t let this continue.”What have you been doing, anyway?”

“Keeping tabs on the war updates. Naming Ravus Nox Fleuret as Deputy High Commander is not an overt sign of war, but it could be a sign that the Empire is looking to rekindle the fight. We’ve also had some trade difficulties with Accordo—evidently, the Empire has been tightening her leash. Likely that is what Gladio’s mother is calling about. It’s largely through her efforts that we trade with Accordo at all. My normal duties.”

That all makes sense. But there’s one problem. “A lot of this is stuff I should have been present for. Why wasn’t I?”

He knows the answer. Ignis adjusts his glasses, but doesn’t make eye contact. “With your back acting up, your father and I thought it might be for the best.”

It’s the answer he expects, but it still stings. Sharp. The question that he can’t escape from—why doesn’t his dad’s priority ever seem to be prepping Noctis to rule someday? Sooner, rather than later, the Ring is going to steal away his dad’s last breath, and Noctis will be King. Why doesn’t his dad seem worried about it at all? “We can’t keep doing this. My back thing’s not gonna go away. And when I’m king, I can’t just stay in bed all day. And I need—I need you with me.” His words break off, and he realizes that he’s shaking.

Why is he shaking? It’s just Ignis, who understands him better than anybody. Maybe that’s why. Whose opinion matters more than Iggy’s? And he’s so tired of watching Ignis push himself and push himself, like he has something to prove. Like he’s some unwanted war orphan the Crown is going to put out at any moment. 

No. Ignis is here to stay, as long as he wants to. Wherever he came from before, he’s a Lucian. He’s Crownsguard. Noctis can’t do it without him. Ignis pulls Noctis into his side. His aftershave is strong and masculine, almost heady. So many times, Noctis has relaxed into it. “We don’t have to discuss this now,” Ignis gentles. 

“We do. Look, you can’t keep shielding me from things. That’s not how this works. We’re partners. We gotta work together, we gotta do this _together_. You can’t just do things for me because you think you’re helping me or whatever.”

“Noctis… My duty is—”

“I can’t learn if you keep fishing for me, instead of teaching me how to fish,” Noctis doesn’t want to hear about Ignis’s duty. He’s not just Ignis’s job. He knows it, but sometimes he feels like it. Like Ignis would have been happier, staying with his parents in Tenebrae. This must be hard for him, and he’d seem to be wearing it well, if not for the fact Noctis can see through his veneer.  “You’re my best friend, Iggy. I don’t wanna watch you kill yourself. So share the load a bit.”

He squeezes Ignis’s hand, and after a moment, Ignis squeezes back. Clasping him tight. “I’ll—do my level best. I’ll likely continue to make mistakes, but I’ll try.”

“No one except you expects you to be perfect.”

“If only that were true.”

With a lot of shifting and coercing, Noctis bullies Ignis into laying down with his head in Noctis’s lap. He pets through Ignis’s gel-tacky hair, trying to get it to relax. Trying to get Ignis to relax. Mostly, he succeeds at making a mess of himself and Ignis, but it’s all good. Ignis’s eyes are shut, breathing peaceful.

Gladio comes back in, his face brightening into a grin when he sees them. “You two work it out already?”

“Like it was hard,” Noctis says, rubbing firm circles into Iggy’s temples.

Ignis hums as Gladio moves his legs, so that Gladio can put them in his lap. He massages Ignis’s feet. A few minutes later, Ignis drifts off. “I wanted him to eat something,” Noctis whispers.

“Let ‘im sleep,” Gladio murmurs. “Let’s move him up to the bed.”

 

Ignis doesn’t wake when Gladio hefts him over his shoulder. He hangs there corpse-like. Usually he’s a very light sleeper. Noctis follows them up the stairs. The hallways are adorned in tasteful statues of naked women and elaborate tapestries of the Astrals. Gladio’s mom chose most of the decorations, despite not living here full time.

They turn into Gladio’s room. It’s a simple, comfortable space. Full bookshelves adorn the room from floor to ceiling, covered in books. In one corner, his first practice sword hangs with all its nicks and notches on proud display. In the center is a huge Altissian King bed. The bedspread is navy blue—nearly black—rippled as if with waves.

There are about a million guest rooms in the Amicitia Manor, but Gladio brings them here. They’ve always shared the bed. Noctis snuggles up with Ignis, and Gladio does the same on Ignis’s other side. The two of them blanket and protect Ignis.

Warmth tugs him under the deep, and he drifts off almost immediately to the even, familiar sound of Ignis’s breathing.

 

Ignis’s alarm goes off at 3:30 a.m.  like a siren, cutting through the still air. Prompto groans beside Noctis. It’s enough to make Noctis open a sleepy eye. When had Prompto arrived…? But here he is, cuddled against Noctis’s side. Prompto is on one end, then Noctis, then Ignis, and then Gladio. Somehow, they all cram into Gladio’s big bed. It’s cozy, but boiling under the thick duvet. 

“Morning,” says Ignis, but he doesn’t look chipper. His hair is wild from sleeping in the gel and the bags under his eyes are puffier than yesterday. He stops the alarm. Finally.“Apologies. I need to prep some notes. The rest of you needn’t rise.”

Gladio wraps arms around his waist. “How many times have you prepped your notes?”

“A fair few,” he admits, trying to free himself, but he’s caught by a Gladioloctopus. Every time he removes one limb, another wraps around him. “Gladio!”

Noctis says, “You sent me the notes. I’ve read them. We’re ready, Specs. C’mon. Skin hunger is totally a thing. My therapist was telling me all about it.”

“Are you prescribing me—”

“He’s totally prescribing you cuddles,” Prompto mumbles. “C’mon, dude. I just fell asleep.” He rolls over Noctis to cuddle around Ignis and Gladio, his hair standing up all cute and crazy like some badly-rendered girl’s anime love interest.

Sharing a bed with his three favorite people is amazing. He curls into the pile, head in someone’s shoulder, maybe Iggy’s? They’re such a tangle of limbs, he can’t decipher who begins where.

His back aches from the position, but no way is he moving. Ignis lets out a soft laugh that breaks off—oh, oh is he crying? The shoulder his head is on is shaking, and yeah, yeah Ignis is crying, and he whispers, “Thank you.Thank you. I think… I think we might sleep another few hours.”

All of them squeeze him tight, and Noctis promises himself he’s never going to let Ignis go.

 

They convince Ignis to let them love him for two and a half hours, before he points out that the three of them need showers and clothes. Prompto rouses a bit when they leave bed. Gladio catches his cheek in his huge, gentle hand. “You can sleep here. I’ll catch up with you after the meeting.”

Prompto hums, eyes already closing, even as he pushes up into the contact. “Seeyalater,” he slurs, and then wraps himself around Gladio’s pillow.

Hell, Prompto is sleeping in his clothes. Maybe they need an Ignis style intervention for him too. But think about that later. This meeting is important, and Noctis has gotta focus. He gets up to shower.

 

A few hours later, Ignis drives with clenched hands. His gloves creak. “I mentioned it before, but there’s a protest on the steps of the Citadel today. We’ll pass it on the way.” 

Right. They’re protesting about immigration. “What do they want, anyway?”

“Less draconian immigration policies, to begin. Their hope, at a guess, is to have Outland policy revised.” Ignis neatly changes lanes, bringing them closer to the Citadel that looms gleaming black over the city.

Gladio, in the backseat, leans forward between Ignis and Noctis. “One thing at a time, you two. Gotta get through this meeting first.” 

Might be he’s right. His dad usually keeps him out of politics. This is the most important meeting Noctis will have ever attended. And, if he’s not careful, it’ll be the last too, probably. The Council is stronger than his dad likes to admit. 

He looks back down at the notes in Ignis’s prim handwriting. _Border incidents: Galdin_ _Quay_ _, 7 occurrences_ —

Just before the garage checkpoint, Noctis sees the protest. A couple hundred people spill over the steps of the Citadel, and it’s definitely something they were hiding from him. Unrest about immigration isn’t uncommon, he knows, given that a big ass magical Wall keeps people out of Insomnia. And, by many definitions, pulling the Wall back to Insomnia handed the Outlands straight to the Niffs.

A woman is speaking into a megaphone and he considers lowering the window to listen except—

There are many signs. Cardboard, cloth, banners. Everything. But it’s a small cardboard sign that leaps out to him. In dark black letters, it says, **EXPAND THE WALL.**

Frost claws out from his chest, his veins running icy with shock—how could anybody want that? Don’t they know what that would do, that it would kill his dad? His dad would fade away to nothing. There’s a reason the Wall is just over Insomnia—and then the chill is replaced by impossible heat. His whole body is consumed by it. A Crownsguard lets them into the garage, and the protest fades from view. They want to kill his dad.

He can still see it, though. The sign. His dad, stooped further with age, hair gone snowy with the Ring’s strain. A king’s funeral procession through the city, just like the video he’d watched of his grandfather’s.

Even without expanding it, the Wall will kill his father, and then it will kill him.

“Noct?” Ignis says, “We’ve arrived.”

The garage is dark. Noctis vaults out of the car and stands in the dim lighting. Ignis is already moving for the elevator, not one to waste time. 

Distantly, he feels himself shaking, but he tries to hold it in. The ice. It could burst out of him at any moment. Gladio puts a hand to his shoulder. “Dunno what’s gotten into you, but shake it off.”

“Don’t they know expanding the Wall will kill him?” he demands. “It’s already killing him!”

“Noct—” Gladio begins, grimacing as Noctis shakes off his touch.

Ignis stills ahead of them, and turns to face him. “Noctis, I know that this is a personal topic for you, however, please do attempt to see it from their perspective.” 

“Their _perspective_ is that my dad should die!”

Ignis faces the elevator again. “Shall I go on ahead to the meeting, then? I’ll buy you some time, until you can act with the graciousness befitting your station.” His tone is pointedly icy. He disappears into the elevator, his shoulders a strong line of tension.

Ringing silence when he leaves. Normally, it would sting, but the heat sears back through him. Fuck Ignis. Fuck Ignis for wanting him to listen to people that want to kill his dad. Fuck them. Fuck him. Gladio stands at his elbow. “Noct—”

“Don’t!” He doesn’t care. _He doesn’t care._

“Noctis,” Gladio says, firmer this time. “I know Iggy was harsh. And I know it sucks that people don’t understand the sacrifice of Kings. But some of these people have lost everything. _Ignis_ included. His parents are still in Tenebrae. They’re still out there. You don’t have to agree with ‘em, but you can at least listen.”

“They want my dad dead,” but the heat is seeping out of him. He’s tired.

“No. They want to be protected, and what is a country for, but protection? Come on. We can’t be late.” Gladio smoothes out Noctis’s hair with aching gentleness. “Deal with it later. Right now, you gotta do your dad proud.”

Noctis takes a shaking breath, and allows Gladio to steer him inside.

 

The Council meets in the room just below the Crystal’s. Sometimes, in the awkward lulls of meetings, Noctis can feel its power reverberate in his teeth. Gladio steers Noctis into the room by his elbow. Their dads, Cor, Ignis, Drautos, and an assorted set of Council members are seated at the polished marble table. Stiffly, Gladio bows, and they sit. 

Noctis glances at his dad. Just since the last time he saw him, it seems like more color has sapped out of him. Those lingering strands of black in his hair are nearly silver. His face is drawn and near translucent. Frail. His dad looks frail. The Ring glows innocuously on his father’s hand. Killing him. The Ring is killing him, in exchange for the Wall. Expanding it is impossible.

Noctis would go from having maybe another decade or so with his dad, to two or three years tops. He’d have to have a kid, and try to stay alive long enough for the kid to get old enough to wear the Ring. And the cycle would continue. 

Under the table, Ignis squeezes Noctis’s knee. His attention snaps back to the meeting. Drautos stands before the Council, imposing in his leathers. “Have we considered that the Princess Lunafreya may be compromised? Our only intelligence is a letter from a captive princess, which has been read by one person. It seems that we are risking much on very little. ” 

His dad regards him, then turns to Noctis. “Perhaps the Prince would like to speak?”

Luna, compromised? That’s some bullshit. Even if she wasn’t the Oracle, she’s _Luna._ The Empire would never sway her. Noctis takes his place at the head of the room. They watch him with smooth glass expressions. It’s not the first time he’s spoken before them, but it is the first thing of consequence he’s said. “Princess Lunafreya of Tenebrae is the Oracle. This puts her above petty political squabbles. She’s also sent information to us before using the same secure channel. That information has all proved true.”

Councilor Madeline Fabri rises, but remains at the table. She leans heavily on her carved garula-ivory cane. “As she is the Oracle, I am inclined to believe her counsel. And yet, she has been under sway of the Empire for nigh ten years. Are you certain she can be trusted, Your Highness?”

Her strong eyes are fixed on him, and he feels the weight of her consideration. She has been on the Council since his Grandfather’s reign. A good, stalwart ally but a bit of a curmudgeon, according to his dad. Noctis nods. “Yes. I vouch for her unconditionally. Her brother is the Deputy High Commander, and it’s probable that he’ll be given the control of the MTs. More than that, it’s too dangerous for her to say.”

“I thought the channel was secure?”

Noctis nods. “Of course. But it’s best not to tempt fate.”

Council Fabri sits. “Thank you, Your Highness, for your counsel.”

He returns to his seat. Drautos’s mouth curls, but he remains silent. Without rising, his dad says, “The Oracle has ever proved herself friend to Lucis. Taking her words into account, we must face the possibility of the War with Niflheim rekindling. Cor?” He turns to him. “You’ve something to suggest?”

Cor rises. He is sharp and commanding as ever, but Noctis swears he can see the purpling of a bruise at his neck. Clarus, beside Noctis’s dad, is unflappable as ever. Given that they’re all but living together, it doesn’t take a scholar to know whose mouth left the bruises. Cor says, “We need more intelligence if we want to know both the Empire and the Deputy High Commander’s intentions. We cannot rely solely upon the word of a captive Oracle for our war policy—we need something concrete.”

Clarus joins his side. “I agree. The Glaive ever watches the Empire, but we require more information from beyond the Wall.” 

His dad rises to join them. All the Council watches the King limp to the forefront of the room. His eyes are piercing as he regards them, his back perfectly straight, even if his arm trembles, weight heavy on the cane. “You are of course, correct. Without more information, we cannot know how best proceed. Outside of Lucis, the Glaive will learn whatever they can of Niflheim’s recent machinations. The Crownsguard within the City will analyze their discoveries. The two branches will operate jointly. Cor, Drautos, can we trust you to cooperate?” 

It’s pointed. Beside Noctis, Gladio shifts, glancing at Clarus. But Cor is calm as he locks eyes with Drautos across the table. “It will be as you say, Your Majesty. Guard and Glaive will be as one in this venture.”

Drautos nods. “The Glaive will send the best, Majesty.”

The relationship between the Kingsglaive and the Crownsguard isn’t the greatest. The Guard is full of old noble blood, the Glaive of immigrants. Beyond that obvious source of tension, they differ in their objectives. The Glaive, a more covert force operating outside the Wall, where the Guard openly protects City and Crown from within the Wall.  There’s more to it, he’s sure—but to no one has seen fit to elaborate.

A joint operation might help, or it’ll be like putting two kids who hate each other in the same school project group and watching them burn. But both Cor and Drautos nod at each other. It seems to appease the Council, who quickly wrap up the meeting. Likely, they want to go home to their vast estates.

Soon enough, only his dad, Clarus, Ignis, Gladio, and Noctis remain. His dad nods at them. “I would a moment with my son, if you will.”

Noctis startles, but keeps his expression neutral as the others bow and disappear. “Dad?”

His dad looks elderly. Care worn into his face. Deep wrinkles. Frown lines.

Noctis can feel it. The whisper of the Ring. The noose fitting heavy around his throat.

No no no. Looking at his dad is not looking at their shared grave. But his chest aches, and he longs to reach out, yet somehow feels it’s not his place. “How are you feeling?” his dad asks.

“A bit sore,” he says, “But I think the PT will help.” 

“You did well today, regardless.”

His dad looks so tired and worn, but they have to talk. They should have talked before now, but that’s really not their relationship. “I should be involved in more of these.” 

“It’s better for you to rest. Once your back is healed—”

“Dad, that’s—that’s the same as saying when your leg gets better, or when you have energy again. It’s never going to happen. There’s no point waiting around for it.”

His dad lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. Above, the Crystal hums and hums, and the Ring is hot, enough that Noctis can feel it through his suit. Frowning, his dad says slowly, “Perhaps you’re right. In my haste to protect you, I forgot that some wounds cannot be fully healed.”

“Someday, I’ll be King, Dad. I have to be prepared.”

His dad scrubs a hand over his face. “…Yes. Of course. You _will_ be King someday, but you mustn’t walk your path alone. However, I will see that you are invited to more security meetings, if that is your wish.” 

It’s the best he’ll get, but he feels a load lift. If he doesn’t have to watch Ignis work himself to the bone, if he can be informed about what is happening to their country—he can be a better Prince. A better friend. A better son. “Thanks, Dad… You should go get some sleep. You look wiped.”

His dad sighs a laugh. “I suppose I am. Dinner on Friday?”

“Have your people call my people,” they joke about it, but it’s depressingly borderline truth. “Sure thing, dad.”

They might have to cancel, they often have to cancel, but Noctis looks forward to it anyway. His dad embraces him, his squeeze weaker than the fierce grip of Noctis’s memories.

They let go too soon. Noctis meets Ignis and Gladio at the car. “Sorry. For earlier. I was being a brat.”

Gladio nudges Ignis, elbow to the ribs. Ignis flexes his hands, staring at them. “I apologize, Noctis. I was harsher than I intended. Your reaction was understandable, and—”

“Specs. It’s fine. Can we just go? I’m pretty tired.”

Ignis nods, without making eye contact. “Of course, Noct.”

This time, Noctis takes the backseat and they drive in silence. He has so much to think about, but it lingers—expand the wall, and his pale, frail father. This is the Power of Kings. The Sacrifice. It’s Necessary. 

**Author's Note:**

> General notes: mentions of past Ignoct, depiction of mental illness (depression, anxiety, etc.), past & present physical disability, low self-esteem and self-worth, miscommunication, canon-typical violence, and canon-typical anti-immigrant sentiment.
> 
> This may change as the story progresses, but I think this is most of it.


End file.
